A Faded Kind Of Blue
by pocket-cheese
Summary: Boketto (ボケット, ぼけっと) - To gaze vacantly into the distance, without thinking ...but Sly Blue can't stop thinking Trigger Warning For Dissociative Identity Disorder, Derealization, Self Harm


It was happening again. He could hear the other voice in his head pushing to be set free, begging to be released from the fleshy confines of his brain. The thumping sounds grew greater, as if there were fists pounding on the inside of his skull – banging and banging until the pressure became too great and his own knuckles clenched, driving straight into the wall. The action brought him back, and he stared down at the shaking fist before him, flexing the bony joints of his fingers and telling himself over and over that he was still here, that he wasn't going away any time soon – but it was as though his eyes had been covered in layer upon layer of uneven cling-film, distorting everything within his field of vision.

He stands there for a while, but really he doesn't know how long, even though all he can hear is the throb throb throb of his own blood, marking the passing of seconds like the unbearably loud ticking of a clock in a school exam. He wonders if this is a test to see if he can take it, but _he can't he can't he can't_

…and finally the pulsing reduces. He can hear the muffled sobbing in his head as it dies down, only to realize that the sobs are his own as tears fall onto the hands gripping his knees. He sinks onto the floor, leaning against the bed-frame and staring at the white wall. His legs are laid out before him, but they don't feel like his own, even when he twitches his feet and knows that the action mimics the movement he intends to make.

He repeats movement after movement, tapping his knees with his fingers and whispering _I'm here_ with each tap. Aloud or not, he doesn't know. Movement after movement, but it still isn't enough. He grabs a fistful of hair and pulls **hard** , but it makes his eyes blur even more with tears, and he can't be sure that he is here and hasn't been pushed to a corner of his own mind if he can't see - so he does the next best thing and tugs the ring-pull off the top of a soda can lying at the foot of his bed. He drives it into his arm as deep as he can and drags it up and down again frantically, no care for methodical lines because there **is** no method in this madness - only the desperate need to sense something, to feel his own flesh and know that he's in control of it.

The cuts run with blood, but they only give a weak sting. He needs something stronger than a barely there pang. He rises clumsily onto his knees and begins rooting through his drawers, throwing the contents onto the floor because they're not important right now. He finds it, although he wasn't looking for it specifically. It seems to glow in the light like a holy sword, Excalibur or something, and not a family heirloom that Koujaku had given to Aoba before he'd left the island. He turns the knife over in his palm, thinking of how ridiculously Koujaku-like it is to give a child a piece of his fricking heritage just because the said child was Aoba.

 _Aoba_. That fucking bastard.

He grinned to himself as he pushed the tip of the blade into his arm, deepening the wounds already there. He knows it's ridiculous, but he wonders if he cuts hard enough it would cut the voice out. The pain is starting to make him feel a bit sick, but he's not done yet. Blood splatters onto the carpet, the seeds of his effort to kill a part of himself that he knows won't die that easily. Dizziness overtakes him, and he slumps over onto his side, pulling the bottom drawer of his bedside table out and dropping the knife into it. He curls his arms in front of his face so that he can see the fruits of his labour.

 _He's here. He's here. He's. Still. Here._

He closes his eyes and lets himself sink into nothingness, floating somewhere between the waking world and dreamless sleep. He stays like this for hours; cheek pressed into the carpet and bangs damp with tears. The words go around his head like an endless loop, and he needs to get them out somehow. He rolls over and gropes under the bed blindly, his fingertips finally making contact with a pen. He crawls to the wall beside his dresser and scrawls 'I AM HERE' in shaky letters. He regards it blankly for a few minutes, and then lies down again, curled awkwardly with his head underneath the writing and his spine digging into the corner of the dresser. His eyes are sore from crying, and his head too dull and achy from thinking to stay awake any longer.

He doesn't know that Tae knocks on his door and cracks it open when there's no reply, not expecting him to be there when he makes a habit of going on fighting rampages in the evenings, and not realizing that he was here all along, fighting with himself. It's mostly dark inside the room but she sees the writing on the wall and purses her lips, thinking that she'll have to get some paint for when Aoba undoubtedly regrets it when he's finally cooled down from his current frantic behaviour. Things like this have happened before. He'll be gone from the house for weeks, and Tae knows he's taking drugs and passing out in alleyways after yet another night of too much to drink – having casual sex, beating people up and engaging in God knows what other sorts of criminal behaviour. Then he'll come back, completely burnt out, and stay in bed for days, nauseous and suffering from terrible migraines. She enters the room cautiously lest he wakes up and freaks out to find her there. He isn't a fan of talking to her or even being in the same room as her these days.

It's obvious that he's been crying. She hasn't seen his face up close for weeks, maybe even months, and now she can see that it is gaunt and sickly pale, the bruise coloured circles under his eyes confirming her suspicion that he's been without sleep for days again. She touches his hand lightly. It's cold, his nails a dull blue. When he doesn't stir, she pulls his arm towards her slowly, turning it slightly to expose all of the cuts. They're deep, but no longer bleeding, dried blood crusted to the skin and beginning to clot, whilst other areas are bloodless and raw flesh.

She watches his face for a few minutes, taking the opportunity to carve it into her mind. She rises slowly and walks out of the room, leaving no trace behind, and willing that her Aoba will come back before this one destroys himself completely.


End file.
